Nealan
by dares to dream
Summary: They always say you shouldn't follow the light at the end of the tunnel... TPE: October Challenge Fic.


Entry for **The Tamora Pierce Experiment: Writing Challenges-October. **

Inspired by this glorious quote: _"One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place." _-Emily Dickinson

Enjoy a bit of spooky (or I at least I hope...) fun with Sir Nealan of Queenscove!

And now, presenting: Nealan

* * *

><p>"<em>Nealan"<em>

Hairs sprung up on his arms.

"_Nealan_"

His breath caught in his throat.

"_Neeeaaalllannn"_

One by one his fingers lifted themselves from his sword. With a clang it crashed to the flagstones, the force reverberating through the sleek metal to his ears. His eyes swiveled in their desperate search to make sense of the oblivion surrounding him.

His sword. Why did he have his sword? There was a pain behind his eyes as he combed through his memory.

Yuki. He had been peacefully sleeping by her side. Where was she? His hand began to shake as he bent to search for his fallen weapon. Was she safe? Where could she be?

His fingers touched the cold, moist stone and a shiver ran through his spine. Where was he for that matter? And where was that bedamned sword? Surely it would be right there, but all that he could feel was wetness.

The floor. He must be beneath the castle, nowhere else would this much moisture gather.

"_Nealan."_

He snapped up, his sweat ridden hair slapping against his eyes. Someone was calling to him. He felt a fire burn briefly in his chest—no one called him Nealan, except for his Great Aunt Trudy. He hated his Great Aunt Trudy.

"_Nealan."_ The voice—it was as if the air itself was speaking to him. No origin. No gender. Not a single clue as to the speaker.

The air was completely still as a bead of sweat slid down the contours of his face. "Who is there?"

His voice was ragged with adrenaline, fighting to keep his tone from giving away his fear.

"_Come_."

A soft breeze chilled his skin, and his feet moved forward as if of their own accord. He was following a voice. Of all the things to do…Dom had every right to call him Meathead.

Yet he could not stop himself from moving with the breeze. His shoes squeaked against the moist stones and the darkness continued to permeate the space, but he ran into no walls, no doors, and no one.

But wait. There, in the distance…could it be a light? His heart leapt in unexpected joy. He could see a small, flickering flame amidst the black.

"_Come, Nealan."_

His attention was now solely fixed on that speck of orange, his brain barely registering the voice. A lit candle meant someone else had been down there, someone who may know where he was. Someone who could help him escape the eternal darkness.

Suddenly the flame was in front of him, and with it was revealed an ancient door. It's dark, holey wood was charred in some places, and in others the metal hinges were nearly rusted through.

His mind didn't register the absurdity of the situation. He never noticed that the door was the only thing there, not even walls surrounded it. He never saw that the flame had no candle. He never heard the chuckle flow through the breeze as he turned the knob.

Taking a breath, Neal opened the door.

And died.

OoOoOoO

"Neal! Neal, please! In the name of the Wavewalker, please wake up."

Air rushed into his lungs as he jolted up from his cushioned resting place. Light was the first thing he noticed. Light everywhere, in all corners of the room, lighting the walls from wood floor, to carved ceiling.

"Neal!"

Not Nealan.

His head turned to this new voice, to look into the deep chocolate eyes of his wife. Confusion and fear crinkled her normally impassive eyes. Tortall had that effect on the Yamanis.

"Thank the Mother, Neal. You had me worried."

Neal blinked as his mind rushed to catch up with her words. He noticed her hand resting on her stomach, a nervous habit of hers lately. He was beginning to wonder…

"Neal, are you alright? Your sleep seemed…disturbed."

She tried to cover the worry in her voice, but it cracked nonetheless.

Neal relaxed his shoulders and moved his roughened hand to cover the hand on her belly. "It's alright, my love. Just a bad dream, is all."

He felt the stress leave her muscles and she leaned back onto the pillows. Smiling, Neal did the same, gazing at the love of his life.

In the warm, lit room with his beautiful wife and all her love, the dark corridor of his dream seemed an eternity away. Whatever tricks the Dream God was playing had no substance here.

His reality would keep away the nightmares.

For now.


End file.
